


(She Don't) Let Go

by crisiskris



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Doyle dies guys, Gen, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crisiskris/pseuds/crisiskris
Summary: Angel tries to unravel Doyle's secret. Takes place in season 1, starting in episode 5 (Rm w/a Vu) and ending in episode 9 (Hero).





	(She Don't) Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Completely canon compliant

Angel was a very patient man. One had to be, when one was immortal, burdened with the weight of several lifetimes’ worth of sin, and seeking redemption for the irredeemable. He understood that there were some wounds that simply couldn’t bear to be touched, not even to be cleansed, until a long time had passed since the initial injury. 

This was why he’d been content to give Doyle such leeway, even though the man’s behaviour smacked of desperation and need. But he wasn’t going to let him completely off the hook. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Doyle screwed the new deadbolt into his door, repairing the damage that his demon loan shark had done on his last visit. “There,” Doyle proclaimed, “safe as houses.”

“You’re going to live like this?” Angel asked quietly. He watched Doyle try to slip sideways, making some glib remark. Deflect, avoid. He knew that manoeuver.  He’d used it many times. Doyle fidgeted, sitting against the edge of his sofa, and made some trivializing remark about miscommunications. “You know I’ll help you out,” Angel told him seriously.

“For which I’m grateful,” Doyle replied. He didn’t sound grateful; he sounded worried. Angel understood the subtext. It was, ‘please, don’t ask.’

“Eventually I’m going to need to hear it,” Angel told the young man. 

Doyle kept up his pretence. “Hear what?”

“The story of your life.” Angel met his eyes and watched the lad shift away again.

“Aye, and what a tale it is,” he replied, “full of ribald adventures and beautiful damsels with loose morals.” Angel pinned him down with his gaze, and waited. It would be now, or never, that he would get through, that Doyle would let him in. If he had been still breathing, he probably would have held his breath. There was something about Doyle that brought up fierce feelings of protectiveness and worry. He was on a precipice and couldn’t seem to make a choice: climb to the light, fall back into the dark. Angel remembered that precipice very well. He’d spent a lot of time in the sewer until... until Buffy.

Just then Doyle’s eyes widened, making him look younger and more vulnerable than he had a moment ago. “I will,” he protested, under Angel’s watchful eye. “Just... give me time.” Angel nodded, feeling a weight lift from his heart. There. That was the connection he was hoping for. After a moment, Doyle shrugged, uncomfortable. “The past... she don’t let go, do she?”  He remarked.

“No,” Angel replied, seeing a lithe figure move in the shadow of his memory, a wisp of blonde hair. “She never does.”

***

Angel left it alone after that... the door was open and it was up to Doyle to walk through it. Things returned to normal, or as normal as they ever were. They were halfway through Chinese takeout one night, laughing over something Cordelia had related, when phantom Dennis suddenly pulled the carton out of Doyle’s hands. “Hey!” Doyle started, Cordelia echoing his sentiments with an admonishing, “Dennis, give that back!”  but she didn’t have a chance to say anything more because suddenly Doyle was flying back against the couch, gasping, his hands rising up to grip his temple. He thrashed back again and then curled around himself, letting out a moan through clenched teeth that Angel immediately knew was a strongly controlled version of the scream of pain the man would have liked to express. He was at Doyle’s side in an instant, laying his hands on Doyle’s arms, feeling the muscles tremble under his palms, impossibly tense.  At his side he sensed Cordelia slip off the couch to give them space.

“Doyle. Doyle?” Angel tried to make eye contact, to get the other man to lift his head. “Talk to me. Hey!” Releasing the Irishman’s arm, he tucked one hand under Doyle’s chin and tried to get him to look up. Doyle shuddered at the contact, but Angel was firm. His mind was racing, filled with desperate, sick worry for his friend on the one hand and the adrenaline-spiking urgency of finding out what the vision was on the other. Finally, Doyle looked up. He had tears in his eyes. 

“Children,” he whispered. “They were just babies.”  Doyle’s voice broke, and he dropped his eyes. Angel felt him shake under his hand and realized suddenly that Doyle was crying. He stared dumbly at the other man for a moment. Then Cordelia was there, pushing between them, sitting down on the couch beside Doyle and drawing him to her. Doyle clung to her like a child himself. A woven blanket hovered across the room and settled around the distraught man’s shoulders. 

“Thanks, Dennis,” Angel said, standing up and backing off. He didn’t know what to do. He felt a cold touch, as though Dennis’ hand had brushed his arm, and then it was gone and he was alone. Feeling useless, he reached for the bottle of wine that Cordelia had opened earlier that night and poured a glass. “Here,” he said, holding it out. Cordelia took it and offered it to Doyle. He accepted it and drank it in a long swallow.

“Thanks,” Doyle said, his accent thicker than usual. “Angel, they’re just babies for lord’s sake – you need to go. It’s – it’s 1350 Bridgefield Lane, a big white house. Blue shutters. He’s hurting them.” Tears threatened the young man’s eyes again, but he dashed them away, refusing the emotion. The physical trauma of the vision had receded and he was slowly regaining control. Angel spared a moment to think what it must be like to be torn apart like that, have images of horror shoved into your brain. No wonder Doyle drank. 

“What is it? What else did you see?”

“Dark magic. He’s using them, draining them, stealing their innocence and their joy. He’s trying to create something evil. Or pacify something evil that already exists, maybe.”

“Okay, I’m going,” Angel said reluctantly. He didn’t want to leave Doyle. 

“You’ll need Cordy,” Doyle answered. She shook her head, making a noise of protest. “It’s alright,” he assured her. “I’ll stay here. Dennis can keep me company, eh, Dennis?” In response, the blanket, which had slipped off one of Doyle’s shoulders, wrapped itself more securely around the young man. “See?  We’ll be fine. Safe as houses.” He leaned back against the couch, eyes drifting shut. From the corner of his eye, Angel saw a pill bottle floating out of Cordelia’s bathroom. Maybe Doyle was right, he decided. Dennis could do a pretty good job of caregiving in the meantime.

“Let’s go, Cordelia,” he said, reaching for his keys. He touched Doyle’s arm briefly, and the other man opened an eye. “We’ll be back soon,” he promised. 

“Aye,” Doyle agreed, and Angel turned away.

***

It was as horrible as Doyle had intimated. Angel was just grateful that the other man had insisted Cordelia come along – the warlock had cast a spell on himself to prevent being harmed by anything unholy or any living man. Bit of a cliché, really, Angel thought as they drove back to Cordelia’s apartment. Kate had been called and the kids were being taken care of. Most of them were too traumatized to speak, and besides, they were all so young that talk of demons and evil, dark creatures wouldn’t be taken seriously anyway. They’d probably all grow up to believe that they’d made it all up in their heads to cope with the pain of being abducted and abused. 

Beside him, Cordelia was unnaturally quiet. Angel worried that maybe having to lop the head off the evil wizard had been too much for her, and was just about to ask, for the eighth time, if she was alright when she finally spoke, and said, “I hope Doyle’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Angel replied, surprising himself at the depth of nervousness he felt, thinking that Doyle might not be.

“He didn’t look good. He looked worse than usual, I mean.”

“I noticed.” They pulled into Cordelia’s parking lot and grabbed their gear, heading for home. Cordelia unlocked the door and reached for the light switch. Dennis immediately flipped the lights back off. 

“Dennis, we can’t see,” Cordelia scolded, but kept her voice quiet. The ghost relented, and flipped on a lamp near the couch. Doyle was not there. “Where’s Doyle?” Cordelia’s bedroom door creaked open.  “Really? In my bed?” Cordelia put her hands on her hips, but her look of disdain was short lived. Angel was already heading to the bedroom.

Doyle lay on top of the covers, the quilt from the couch covering him. He was curled over himself in a tight ball, his head resting in his hands. Angel could smell the sharp tang of cold sweat and the underlay of vomit on the man; the headache had made him sick again. Doyle’s breath was coming in short pants. He appeared to be sleeping, but as Angel shifted around, trying to assess him, he seemed to sense the movement and he weakly raised his head, opening his eyes. “Angel?” he croaked out, voice hoarse. 

“Yeah,” Angel replied softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’alright,” the other man’s speech was slurred. He slowly pushed himself up, groaning, trembling. “Expect Cordelia wants her bed back anyway.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “You can stay.”  Angel glanced up at her and saw the concern etched across her face. Her eyes were wide and sad when they met his. He gave her a wistful smile, wishing he knew how to comfort her.

“No, I’m alright,” Doyle replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Just a little worse for wear.  Dennis took good care o’me.”  The lamp in the living room flickered on and off in reply. 

“At least stay the night,” Cordelia suggested. “Sleep it off.”

“Just want ta get home, if it’s all the same t’you, love,” he replied. He reached a hand out blindly, found Angel’s arm, and used it as leverage to come to his feet. Angel quickly caught his arm and helped him, steadying him. The man’s pulse was racing.

“It’s okay, Cordelia,” Angel assured her. “I’ll get him home safe.” He walked Doyle slowly to the door, turning back to whisper a goodbye. Cordelia waved as Dennis set the door fluttering closed behind them.

Angel carefully arranged Doyle in the car, covering him with his coat, and set off for home. They didn’t speak the entire way, but when the car stopped moving, Doyle shifted. “This is your home, not mine, Angel,” he pointed out.

“There’s no way I’m leaving you alone like this,” Angel replied, getting out of the car and walking around to the passenger side to help the other man.  They stumbled into the building and Angel dragged Doyle over to the bed. 

“Thanks, man,” Doyle breathed, collapsing against the mattress. He was out before Angel even had a chance to pull a blanket around him.

***

Cordelia was there first thing in the morning, looking slightly worse for wear. “Did you get any sleep?” he asked her, handing her a cup of coffee.

“A little,” she replied. “Not much. You didn’t actually take Doyle home, did you?”

Angel shook his head. “He’s downstairs, sleeping.”

Cordelia smiled, letting out a sigh. “Good. I’m glad. Angel, I’m worried about him. That vision last night was... he was really knocked out.”

“I know.” Angel paced. “Why would the Powers that Be choose to communicate in a way that causes such obvious damage? I don’t understand it. It does us no good if he’s...”

“What? Dead?” Came another voice. Angel and Cordelia spun around to see Doyle leaning in the doorway, coffee in hand, looking definitely worse for wear. “Angel, man, you gotta do something about that negativity. You gotta look on the bright side – I’m fine,” he smiled for effect and walked into the room. He did seem better, although the dark circles under his eyes belied his exhaustion.

“Doyle!” Cordelia exclaimed. “You’re awake!” She came to stand beside him, paused awkwardly for a moment, and then leaned in and gave him a hug.

“Worried for me, were ya, princess?” he asked, winking.  She rolled her eyes. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I took you to task for that disgusting vision you had last night,” she replied. “Doyle, I had to chop some... thing’s head off. Me! I got blood and *yuck* all over my favourite spring jacket.”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Doyle held his hands up in mock defence. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

Angel watched his two staff – his two friends – banter. The conversation was almost light enough to make him think that everything was back to normal... almost. He settled back, watching Doyle carefully from the corner of his eye.

***

It took Doyle three more days to come to him, but eventually, he did, slinking into the office and slouching into a chair. Angel pulled out the scotch and poured them each a glass. Doyle nodded his thanks, but just held the glass, rolling it between his palms. Angel waited. 

“Can’t seem to shake this headache,” Doyle admitted finally. “It’s, uh, it’s really got me.  I’m not sure...” his voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “I guess it’s a little... worrisome?”  His voice rose at the end like he was asking, so Angel answered.

“It’s got me worried.” Doyle seemed to appreciate the answer; he nodded and settled down a bit. Angel wondered if he’d been looking for permission to be concerned about himself. The thought disturbed him greatly.

“I – I keep getting sick,” Doyle admitted in a rush. “I haven’t been able to eat since...”

Angel sat forward. “That was four days ago,” he replied. Doyle looked away, embarrassed. “Doyle, has it ever been this bad before?” Doyle hesitated, and then shook his head no. “That’s it.” Angel stood, pacing. “We have to go talk to the oracles – something’s going on.”

“I’m just worn down, man, it’s fine. I just need a little peace.”

“It’s not fine,” Angel replied. “Doyle, these visions are hurting you. They could be causing brain damage, for all we know. We need answers. We need to know what’s going on.”

“It’s all part of the process,” Doyle protested in reply. “Y’know – you gotta pay for the things you’ve done.”

“Doyle, whatever you’ve done, the price surely can’t be this high.”

“You don’t know, man.” Doyle’s voice got quiet and dark.  “I know you think you do, but you really don’t.”

“Then tell me. Doyle, let me help you.”

“I can’t.” The younger man’s voice was anguished, desperate. “Not yet, okay.  I’m not ready.”

Angel watched him carefully, considering. He could push the young man, he knew. He could see how close to the breaking point Doyle was. But he also knew how hard that fall was, and he wasn’t sure he’d established enough of a relationship yet for Doyle to trust that Angel could help put him back together again. So instead he relented. 

“Okay,” he replied. The visible relief that sagged through Doyle’s body sent a chill of sympathetic fear through Angel. “I’m going to make you some soup. If that doesn’t stay down, we’re going to Korea Town.”

“Huh?” Doyle seemed to have finally realized he had a drink in his hand, but he paused with the scotch halfway to his lips, regarding Angel with bewilderment. 

Angel smiled. “There’s a spa there that caters specifically to demons,” he explained. “If you won’t let me go to the oracles to find out what’s happening, then at the very least, let me get you a little physical help. They have a healer that’s pretty knowledgeable; she might be able to relieve some of the symptoms.”

Doyle nodded, relaxing. “Okay.” He replied. “Okay. Hey, Angel?” Angel turned at the doorway, pausing on his way to go heat up soup. “Thanks, man.” Doyle avoided the other man’s gaze, downing his scotch.

Angel just nodded. “We help the helpless,” he whispered under his breath, once he was sure Doyle couldn’t hear him.

***

A few short weeks later it was all very clear. Angel stood on the dockyard, now silent and empty, staring out at the sea. There had been nothing left, not even ashes to gather. There was no way to say goodbye. They’d had a memorial of sorts at Doyle’s favourite bar – Cordelia had insisted. Then she and Harry had gone back to the office and watched and rewatched Doyle’s attempt at a commercial, drinking wine and crying until the wee hours when they’d both stumbled down to Angel’s bed and passed out.

Now Angel was alone in the dark, looking out at the peaceful water, bereft of a man he’d barely known. The vampire sighed, running a hand through his hair. There should have been a way to save him, he thought – but even as he thought it, he knew there wasn’t. The oracles had shamed him for asking, noting that to reverse Doyle’s sacrifice would be to take away the meaning in his action, to deny him his right to choose to sacrifice. Angel knew, deep down, that it was true, that this was the only way that Doyle could have truly made his amends. But it didn’t mean he liked it.

He sighed again, turning away from the sea and the dark and the memory. Maybe it was time to let the past go. Maybe it was time to honour Doyle’s memory by taking a chance on the future instead.


End file.
